tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9791988842638464072016-09-08T06:33:50.266+02:00wundalous.An assortment of multikulti adventures in Europe (and beyond?)lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-11658394316019639312011-07-01T03:46:00.001+02:002011-07-01T17:21:40.150+02:00Old stuff<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3NysE1zSDI4/Tg3l8zqReRI/AAAAAAAABnk/mJVq1BIHRU4/s1600/Photo+on+2011-07-01+at+16.17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3NysE1zSDI4/Tg3l8zqReRI/AAAAAAAABnk/mJVq1BIHRU4/s320/Photo+on+2011-07-01+at+16.17.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br />Mom and I were rooting through a box of my old playschool papers today, weeding out the boring items and assembling a stack of goodies. It appears I was an exuberant and preciously insane child. I drew pages upon pages full of hearts, interspersed with the odd trapezoid. Most animals I drew were given a crown and long, effeminate hair sticking out at a 45-degree angle to their bodies. Everything was fervently, heavily scribbled in purple, pink and blue crayon. I wrote a great many stories, and had elaborate apostrophes shaped like fishhooks.<br /><br />Mom unearthed this dialogue from 1993:<br /><br />Mom: There aren't any clean spoons. We'll have to do some dishes.<br />Me: A spoon is not a dish.<br />Mom: What's a dish?<br />Me: A dish is a condition.<br />Mom: What is a condition?<br />Me: A condition is a big song with dances with it. If you sing a song and do a dance <i>with</i>&nbsp;it, it's a condition.<br /><br />Among the papers were some rudimentary, light-handed crayon drawings made by my best friend, Chris. His last name, which I've been trying to remember for years, was also there. Wonder if he remembers me...lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-71240841519088660382011-05-18T05:42:00.001+02:002011-05-18T05:45:38.322+02:00Green machinesI was at work in November in the Science Gallery during an exhibit on environmentally friendly contraptions, and a little girl in a splendid red raincoat came up to me. Pointing at our model of a newly designed rooftop wind turbine, she asked rather incredulously: "Excuse me, what is the purpose of the giant blender?"<br /><br />It did indeed look like some sort of whisk. I was delighted with her curiosity and perceptiveness, and wished more of my customers asked such things.lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-31277861930929063152011-05-18T05:03:00.002+02:002011-05-18T05:05:43.840+02:00Feet that need to rest and to dance<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; line-height: 20px;">“Here,” she said, “in this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh that dances on bare feet in grass. Love it. Love it hard. Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it. They don’t love your eyes; they’d just as soon pick ‘em out. No more do they love the skin on your back. Yonder they flay it. And O’ my people they do not love your hands. Those they only use, tie, bind, chop off, and leave empty. Love your hands! Love them. Raise them up and kiss them. Touch others with them, pat them together, stroke them on your face ’cause they don’t love that either. You got to love it, you! And no, they ‘ain’t in love with your mouth. Yonder, out there, they will see it broken and break it again. What you say out of it they will not heed. What you scream from it, they do not hear. What you put into it to nourish your body they will snatch away and give you leavins instead. No, they don’t love your mouth. You got to love it. This is flesh I’m talking about here. Flesh that needs to be loved. Feet that need to rest and to dance; backs that need support; shoulders that need arms, strong arms I’m telling you. And O’ my people, out yonder, hear me, they do not love your neck unnoosed and straight. So love your neck; put a hand on it, grace it, stroke it, and hold it up. And all your inside parts that they’d just as soon slop for hogs, you got to love them. The dark, dark liver – love it, love it, and the beat and beating heart, love that too. More than eyes or feet. More than lungs that have yet to draw free air. More than your life-holding womb and your life-giving private parts, hear me now, love your heart. For this is the prize.”&nbsp;</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-family: inherit;">- Toni Morrison, <i>Beloved</i></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc; font-family: inherit;"><i><br /></i></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br /></i></span></span>lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-79453736742471059482011-04-27T16:44:00.002+02:002011-04-27T16:44:13.311+02:00Good FridayA man is coming out of the chapel in Trinity College, and spots a friend coming in the opposite direction. "Peter! Peace be with you."<br />-- "Ah, John! Happy No-Booze-Day."lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-1667720016404554172011-03-25T01:24:00.000+01:002011-03-25T01:24:17.972+01:00Why not?The weather was perfect today. I felt like jumping and singing while walking from one end of college to the other. I did so. (Whenever I could do so without my lunacy becoming conspicuous.)<br /><br />We are only two in our Second Language Acquisition course. We both like perfect weather, and agreeing that our professor probably did too, we asked to have our class outside. "Why not? Let's go to the Rose Garden." And so for an hour I sat in the fading but warm sun, learning about the shortcomings of the Critical Period Hypothesis, watching through my optimistically tinted lenses my professor's white hair becoming tousled by the wind against the cheery red backdrop of a prolifically flowering shrub. And this just after an hour of sipping a cappuccino and devouring a spicy salami and provolone panini on the grass, in the sunshine, in the company of my favorite Gearóid. And that after having the pleasure of meeting the lovely new lurb of my favorite Louise. And that after a brilliant, satisfying nap with the window open. Und es war gut.<br /><br />Even AI seemed alright after the strong dose of fresh air. Good day.lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-30654417035235198862011-03-25T00:51:00.000+01:002011-03-25T00:51:12.908+01:00Modal particle meets Sleepless in Seattle...manchmal lohnt es sich nicht. Aber manchmal geht man trotz der großen Unsicherheit das Empire State Building hoch, ohne zu wissen, was man da erwarten sollte...und dann hat es sich <i>allemal </i>gelohnt.<div><br /></div><div>Danke Christin, dass Du sogar in der viel zu frühen Übersetzungsstunde tolle Beispiele ausdenken kannst!</div>lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-51358843776966656682011-02-19T05:36:00.000+01:002011-02-19T05:36:20.992+01:00Stras(from 13 December 2009 - rediscovered)<br /><br />I was excited to go to Strasbourg Saturday morning, but little did I know just how fun it would be. A small band of us instantly hit it off and spent the day acting blissfully idiotic in two different countries. We wandered the colorful, perhaps overly bustling Christkindlsmärik and the scarily upscale shopping streets, spending much of our time ogling the chocolates in the windows. Photos were both thoughtfully and thoughtlessly snapped, fingers were frozen, Kandinsky was discussed in very late French trains, and shrimp, wine and not-quite-right enchiladas were consumed at a lovely little hidden Spanish restaurant&nbsp;(<a href="http://www.vivazapata.info/">Viva Zapata</a>)&nbsp;back home in Saarbrücken. Orion, the Little Dipper and even Mars were spotted&nbsp;(as well as ice over the top of the permanent puddle!)&nbsp;on the rather extended 5-minute walk from the bus stop to Heim D and in the same space of time, impossible feats with a glowy whatsamajiggy on a rubber band were accomplished, in addition to several magnificent slips of the tongue. Jumby bunching, e.g.<br /><br />There seems currently to be a rave taking place underneath my room. It's a small price to pay for such a fantastic day. I am almost disgustingly happy. This is exactly what college is supposed to be.lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-59955472693427239222011-02-19T05:23:00.001+01:002011-02-19T05:43:20.335+01:00DirectionsI have noticed recently that I am asked for directions very frequently, I suspect more frequently than most people. Perhaps I'm just not often in enough of a hurry to avoid these questions. In any case, one odd, brief dialogue gives a bit of insight into the way people think.<br /><br />I was in Vienna, wandering around Neubau, looking at old Leica cameras in a shop window on a quiet, somewhat questionable-looking street, sipping idly at my water bottle. An elderly, noticeably quirky lady walked towards me, her pig-pink, probably self-knit hat with its cheerful pompom quite anomalous in the general drizzly brown and grey of the scene. "Excuse me, where is the flea market? I know it's around here somewhere," she asked.<br /><br />"I'm sorry," I replied, "I'm not from around here."<br /><br />"Oh, really? You were drinking your water so confidently, I'd thought you must be."lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-51597662245789165012011-01-25T01:38:00.002+01:002011-02-19T05:33:36.071+01:00Fall down go boomBecause this page is where the juices of my brain like to ooze when under too much pressure to remain in my head, ooze they shall.<br /><br />My unhatched chickens are preoccupying me. Though obviously it would be unwise to count them, they are many. There are job-chickens, exam-chickens, thesis-chickens, travel-chickens, love-chickens (you knew they were in there somewhere), .... I'm finding the chickeniness of my life these days a little overwhelming. There are a few things I find helpful in fending off visions of the white, wobbly fragility of it all: blog-oozing, for one, tea, TV, foreign languages and music.<br /><br />Lately I've been hearing music everywhere -- the disco beat of my drippy tap, the old-fashioned-sounding kerclunk of Louise's bathroom fan, the sighing and whining of bus wheels, the subtle chirping of my computer's thought. When I feel like I'm about to topple over I pick up my guitar and try to elaborate further on the latest jig to emerge from it -- inspired, of course, by a certain chicken. The more I play, the quieter the rest of the noise in my head becomes. If this is insufficient, tea is consumed, and I immerse myself in the plot of a TV series. (Currently my dreams involve a lot of lawyering and whiskey-drinking, along with the usual train station hullabaloo.) And should I begin to get jittery and queasy over an academic task, I magically wind up on Google Translate or Wikipedia finding out things I don't need to know and reading languages I don't speak aloud just to see what they sound like. Some of them sound lovely; I sound entirely insane. My poor roommate had to pull me up off the floor of my bedroom and make me some tea today because I was consoling myself with a page of Italian ('frastagliata' was my favorite). Odd as it might be, it is strangely therapeutic.<br /><br />So as my brain bastes in a larger than usual puddle, I am greatly appreciative of all the hands extended to help me up. And of coffee.lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-28370418663862417202010-10-28T02:48:00.002+02:002011-02-19T05:32:08.595+01:00Circularity"Life is a curious thing," he pointed out in his usual semi-comical tone as we crossed a sleeping College Green to send him on his way again. Five years ago, the question, unasked, had been like a cigarette butt put out on my heart; now, it was a source of amusement, with just a touch of pensiveness. The answer was like chocolate-coated irony. Going through the gates without my guest, I was a mixture of smiles and damn-its. Stories are self-perpetuating -- they run on the dissatisfaction they leave behind. Perhaps this is why we never change, and why I'm not done with this story.lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-13429548580931299722010-10-12T00:27:00.001+02:002011-02-19T05:28:08.542+01:00HomeIt is late-ish on a Friday evening and once again I've found myself in Leixlip, the axis around which my world of music now revolves. Nuala's high heel is tapping the offbeat on the wooden floor, Seán is attempting to munch on Pringles discreetly, and Gearóid is using his hand as an organic whiteboard to tell me when the next bus is coming. These small goings-on seem a little far away to me: I'm entranced partly because of the oaky red wine, but mostly because I'm listening to my soul being played back to me. The shoes in the room are unanimously appreciative as John's fingers move subtly as ripples in a pond over the fiddle strings, and Catherine's flute seems a chorus of echoes. Although they are but two, the sound could not be more complete. I am transposed, transfixed, transcended. And it is clearer to me than ever before that this is something I can never leave for long. This is my home.lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-10022635000236516352010-08-28T17:59:00.003+02:002011-02-19T05:28:27.830+01:00ESP music requestsWas just looking for a song on Grooveshark and the cafe's radio started playing it. I like it when things like this happen.lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-45471192850156424342010-08-22T19:22:00.001+02:002011-02-19T05:28:59.038+01:00Miserable old batI'm sitting outside at a rather empty cafe, quite comfortable with my feet on another one of the wicker chairs. An old lady has just come up out of nowhere and told me off for dirtying the furniture. I find it somewhat upsetting that this bothered her so much that she felt the need to tell me I am inconsiderate and should be ashamed.lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-2480865765318880932010-07-13T00:20:00.001+02:002011-02-19T05:29:45.686+01:00My new friendThis weekend I met someone inspirational. She makes the most of what she's given, and so she can't help but impress. My own age, and from my own country, she speaks this foreign tongue with conviction after only three years of study. Looking after a four-year-old and undergoing surgery in a foreign country can not have been easy to say the least, but her face shows that she is one to see the sunny side of things. Her&nbsp;joie de vivre lights up the room. I hope one day to be as strong as this girl who smiles so contagiously at the steep slopes she has to climb. I wouldn't be surprised if the slopes bent to make way.lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-82044889059254368992010-06-15T01:08:00.001+02:002011-02-19T05:30:42.790+01:00A memory.At the top of a hotel in Nyon is a little wood-clad room with a similarly little window looking out on the lake. That night, as I sat in the dim light with the scent of wood and freshly washed white sheets, I was drawn to the open window. The breeze stroked the surface of the lake much as a mother would stroke her child's hair, and invited the evenly spaced lights on the opposite shore to perform their simple but mesmerizing musicless dance. I wrapped myself in the almost-silence, the faraway lights, the foreign taste of the air. After a great deal of lying still with wide eyes, creating and dispelling expectations, I fell asleep with a new smile on my face.lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-19459272592749750992010-05-20T20:57:00.004+02:002011-02-19T05:33:04.887+01:00Too slow.It is 5AM, and the sun over the bus stop is rising much too quickly. My face is buried in his shoulder, and his eyes I'm sure are closed while his arms are around me, pressing me close enough to feel that his breathing is unsettled. We stay like this for quite some time in a wistful silence. The tension is torturous, fascinating. A masterpiece of composition. "We'd make quite the sculpture, the way we are now."<br /><div><br /></div><div>--"A sculpture? Yes. The mothers would bring their children by, saying: See, children. This is what happens when you're too slow."</div><div><br /></div><div>He says the forest at dawn is beautiful, but he wouldn't let me walk with him. Wär schön gewesen.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_MNNBpB0tOpE/TBq4h7W1xFI/AAAAAAAABkg/DMVGqd0rkbY/s1600/haltestelle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_MNNBpB0tOpE/TBq4h7W1xFI/AAAAAAAABkg/DMVGqd0rkbY/s320/haltestelle.jpg" /></a></div><br /></div>lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-67173665078561141012010-05-01T02:15:00.001+02:002011-02-19T05:32:43.738+01:00Tissues<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_MNNBpB0tOpE/S9tx0EMB53I/AAAAAAAABkY/78ZR4xCrCYk/s1600/IMG_8265.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_MNNBpB0tOpE/S9tx0EMB53I/AAAAAAAABkY/78ZR4xCrCYk/s320/IMG_8265.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br />My friend, usually impeccably behaved, had had a bit too much to drink, and was decorating a Berlin train platform with regurgitated Averna. A kind passer-by, seeing we had run out of tissues, offered us a full pack of her own to help minimize my friend's discomfort and embarrassment. It warms my heart to know that people like this exist.lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-72453806144697392132010-02-08T21:54:00.001+01:002011-02-19T05:37:18.885+01:00What is this "wundalous" you speak of?<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>Wundalous </i>is a slip of the tongue, blending the words&nbsp;<i>wonderful <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">and&nbsp;</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>fabulous</i>. Much like Lewis Carroll's </span>frumious</i>&nbsp;from <i>furious </i>and <i>fuming</i>. Perhaps one day it will catch on. But for today, it conveniently enables me to easily pick available usernames for websites.</span></span>lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-37822957048062476522010-02-06T01:08:00.002+01:002011-02-19T05:39:00.581+01:00Paris, je t'aime<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As the mindless, over-processed noise I would only grudgingly call music wanders through my floor and into my chair, programming seems somewhat infeasible. So I'm taking a mental walk across the border and into last weekend in Paris, where I'm sure I can find peace.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Normally I attempt to recount stories chronologically, but this one is more a series of impressions, and the order is unimportant.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In a bookshop, I asked directions to a café. The clerk drew me an impressively tidy map of the path I was to take. After finishing his drawing, he held it up to the light and admired his work, saying "If you still get lost, even with this, then I'm afraid I don't understand anything anymore." I bid him good day, and left, returning a minute later to collect my forgotten umbrella.</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On the Rue des Archives, I found a lovely flower shop. Upon asking the florist if I could take pictures of her shop, she said I could only take them from outside, but then hesitated, saying with a smile that since I was nice enough to ask, I could take whatever pictures I wanted. I tried to take her picture among the hyacinths and lilies, but she ducked behind the counter again.</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Shakespeare &amp; Company is a surreal and magical establishment. Hiding in a rather quiet corner on the narrow cobbled Rue de la Bûcherie next to the Seine, it welcomes passers-by with baskets of weathered, obscurely titled books. Upon entering, I realized that ordinary social rules did not apply. Personal bubbles do not exist -- there is not enough space. Books of all colors, subjects and languages fill every nook and cranny with knowledge and opinion. The tiny staircase at the back, leading up to the Reading Rooms, can only permit one-way traffic, and so strangers exchange smiles and laughs as they get in each other's way. At the top I found a&nbsp;piano, which was being held hostage and only intermittently played by a girl in a mustard-colored jumper. As I entered the room to listen, she stopped, not moving to look around. I left her alone. The notes began to tinkle melancholically again, and I picked up a book of stories by Mark Twain, bright red on the shelf among many dark blues and browns, and sat down on a dusty beige cushion. Someone's dog snooped about the room, and found the attention it was looking for in my corner of the room. The waning, white sunlight glinted across its glossy black coat and friendly amber eyes. This was a living room for my retirement -- a piano, soft in the background, a myriad of stories to read, children playing with an old typewriter, and a nice dog to keep me company. But for the missing fireplace, it was peace at its purest.&nbsp;</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Outside the shop I sat on a bollard with my Macadamia Nut Brittle, not bothered that my hands were freezing. I looked down the street at a bright green building and the sign of the Hotel Esmeralda in front of me and tried to frame the photo I would take when my ice cream was gone. A couple subtly flirtatious friends entered the scene. The boy was anomalous with his smart grey coat, unruly ginger curls and ill-suited thick-rimmed glasses. His thin friend with her insufficient jacket and artsy hat took his picture against the wall, telling him to leave his glasses on because he looked good in them.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span> </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The kindness of the Bryson family gave me an exceedingly comfortable bed, as well as rich French food, good red wine and my latest discovery, the Tarte Tatin. I hadn't slept that well in months. &nbsp;</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span> </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Châtelet metro station was filled with the passionate singing and playing of a band of Russian buskers, complete with accordion, double bass, and some exotic-looking percussive string instrument. I stood to listen and take in their profound enthusiasm.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span> </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">At the Musée Zadkine, I discovered "how much a man's life can be changed by a pigeon-house or a tree." The sun brought the little sculpture garden to life, and painted shadowy pictures on the walls. This little courtyard in the city could only hear the leaves rustling and the birds singing among them. I listened to the curators philosophically discuss the work of various artists, and wondered at how I was able to read the facial expressions of the cashier despite her having almost no eyebrows.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span> </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On my wanderings I passed two old ladies laughing so hard they were oblivious to everything around them and could no longer walk straight. An old man walking in the opposite direction returned my smile in acknowledgement of the comedy.&nbsp;</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I escaped the foreign blithering of the clumps of confused tourists at St Michel metro station, finding a quaint sidestreet off of St André des Arts. The quiet was refreshing. And here I found my favorite two characters in all the giant play surrounding me. Exhilarated squeals emerged from a shiny blue helmet, and the two-wheeled creature wobbled along its wildly meandering path towards me, and with such a smile as you've never seen before. The smile was mirrored in his father's face as he chased after him, ruddy with the chilly wind, the exertion, and the pride. I walked slowly to enjoy the scene, and my eyes filled involuntarily with liquid joy. I&nbsp;hope they will remember that day as well as I will.&nbsp;</span></span></div>lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-58581706976135053442010-01-09T23:34:00.007+01:002011-02-19T05:39:37.486+01:00A moment of subtle misanthropy<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">22/12/09<br /><br />Having consumed my tiny, delectable and overpriced cappuccino, I am enjoying a bit of people-watching in the Café Central in Vienna. I feel a great deal of staring from my left at the door, and realize the café is full and 3 or 4 people could easily fit at the small table I am occupying on my own. Somehow, if the place were less busy, I would pay the bill and leave; however, having this space to myself and knowing that the brightly-clad and waterproof visitors, whose searching eyes are multiplying at the doorway, can't have it -- this gives me great satisfaction. I'm tempted to order another coffee just to make them wait. Politely suppressed chaos surrounds me as frenzied waiters rush to seat their foreign customers, and I feel unanticipatedly relaxed. Gradually, a loud Slavic-tongued woman with streaky butter-colored hair edges into my personal space, clarifying her intentions to conquer my table at the soonest opportunity. My peaceful bubble is burst. Watching the everyday lunatic is only fun when one doesn't have to interact with her.<br /></span></div>lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-71692689944672915602010-01-05T00:41:00.004+01:002011-02-19T05:40:21.201+01:00Poison Pen<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I wasn't in love, so I won't cry. It's spilt milk, really. There are several things about this that I find disappointing. 1) No more fancy weekend getaways. 2) I didn't practice my French enough. My fault, of course. 3) My impression is that suaveness generally disguises serpentry. 4)&nbsp;It was tenuous and aimless. Bound for failure, and that was no secret. But he beat me to the punch line. Again. Bastard.&nbsp;</span></span>lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-44751257876996288492009-12-09T23:45:00.003+01:002011-02-19T05:40:58.885+01:00Spam spam eggs bacon spam beans and spam<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">{</span><span style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">∀x | x&nbsp;&nbsp;∈&nbsp;{people}: x.stupid() = True}</span></span><br /><div><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span> </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">If that doesn't make any sense, my point is that it is nearly midnight on Wednesday, and as is wont to be the case at midnight on a Wednesday, my Python homework is still not done. Perhaps because I am lazy, or because the programmer I keep in the closet was on strike, or because I am rather impossibly near-sighted as far as Time goes, or because I suffer from an infectious, chronic and often deadly disease called Procrastination. It takes me at least 2 hours on my own to begin getting my head around the problems. I do not take these two hours until it is too late, and when 6 more are required (I am not quick), I am too tired. Like in my programs, my memory gets overwritten as soon as another week starts (my weeks start on Saturdays, it seems), and so each week I forget that I am not a Python genius and probably never will be unless I start taking those 2 hours on Fridays. Starting this Friday. (I hope.) Failing that, I will make this my New Year's Resolution. We all know how those are always hugely successful.</span></span></span></div>lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-88636061303447831572009-12-06T03:50:00.000+01:002009-12-06T03:50:20.879+01:00Recent YouTube finding (not mine, alas):&nbsp;<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Bmhjf0rKe8&amp;feature=player_embedded">It doesn't get cuter than this...</a>lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-77897405344679317092009-12-06T03:42:00.000+01:002009-12-06T03:42:34.229+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_MNNBpB0tOpE/SxsZuJg5V7I/AAAAAAAAABo/unDQh_RLY7s/s1600-h/robe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_MNNBpB0tOpE/SxsZuJg5V7I/AAAAAAAAABo/unDQh_RLY7s/s320/robe.jpg" /></a><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This flannel bathrobe makes me comfier than thou.<br /></div><span style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><br /></span></span>lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-979198884263846407.post-80824056720988400682009-12-06T03:12:00.002+01:002011-02-19T05:42:12.587+01:00And so it begins......the only way it really can begin: at 3 in the morning. It's always bothered me that the details of our lives tend to steal away into the Land of Forgotten Things just as easily and inconspicuously as lonely socks disappear forever and without explanation from the laundry basket. These dust bunnies of the individual's memory go unacknowledged despite their infinite abundance. Without each of these transient moments, however insignificant, our history is slightly less complete. In a way, we ourselves are slightly less complete. At 19, I already fear the impending dilapidation of my own mind. By scattering my thoughts in a net of other minds and machines, I hope to escape the unreliability of human memory. Hence Blog.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>lockerbleibenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01741613307484856836noreply@blogger.com2